Harm Me Gently
by Darnsagirl
Summary: Modern AU - Peeta's arms tighten around me, holding me together to prevent me from falling apart even more, as he whispers calm, soothing words into my ears, enveloping me with his calm demeanour. Katniss must hold herself together when something happens that prevents Peeta from doing it for her.
1. Green and Sunset Orange

**PART I**

Your favourite colour is sunset orange

_"Prim!" I scream, the sound coming from my mouth garbled and high pitched, more like a dying animal them me. But what am I, if not a dying animal in this never-ending forest? "PRIM!" I start to shake as I run, run without thinking towards my sister. My body acts before my mind does, not thinking about the danger there could be. I look around, taking in every inch of thick, dense forest around me. I will never find her in this. But she screams again, a low guttural moan. I don't even want to think about how they managed to pry the sound from her lips. The sound though, it is right above me. I look up, expecting to see her in the trees, which makes me think of Rue. Thinking of Rue is a short, sweet release, as she is like a little sister and a best friend rolled into one. But the relief is short lived because there she is. Held in the trees by two cloaked people, people I can't see. The way they are positioned, I would never be able to shoot them without taking her down as well. She screams one last time, a high pitched screech of my name before I realise that I must end this, put her out of her misery and the only way I can do that is to shoot her. I raise my bow and she looks down at me as she tries to turn her grimace into a smile for my sake, but the phrase 'a sitting duck' comes to mind and all I can think about is how I can't shoot her, my little duck, my dear little duck, but she's in so much pain and I can't breathe and…_

"It's just a dream! Wake up! It's ok, it's only a dream!"

Peeta's voice breaks through the haze of my nightmare, bringing me back into the real world. I wake with a jolt and don't even look at him, just burying my head into his chest, sobbing and soaking his shirt. I can't look him in the eyes, his startlingly beautiful blue irises only remind me of her. My dear little duck, the one person I couldn't save from the fire that took my family home, along with the last memories of my father. I saved my mother, only for her to fall so deeply into her work to bury her grief that she moved to be closer to the hospital where she nursed, leaving me behind. I even saved her stupid cat, Buttercup, but I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her, I couldn't save her, I couldn't save her…

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sometimes I tell him. He understands. He lost all his family in the same fire.

"It was… There was…," I stutter "she was there!"

The words came out like a hurricane, in such a rush that I don't comprehend that I said it until I feel Peeta's arms tighten around me, holding me together to prevent me from falling apart even more, as he whispers calm, soothing words into my ears, enveloping me with his calm demeanour. I start to rock back and forth, and he moves with me. He tells me that it's ok, that she forgives me, that it's not my fault, that he'll be my family now. He tells me every good thing I've ever done but none of it helps. Eventually he gives in, knowing the one and only thing that will stop me from crying is for him to sing. His voice is rough, even more so this early in the morning, but it soothes me. He opens his mouth and begins to croon;

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where they hung up a man, they say he murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

I stop crying…

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

My eyelids begin to droop...

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where I told you to run so we'd both be free._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

My breathing begins to slow…

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

I manage to say three words to Peeta before I succumb to the darkness.

"Stay with me?"

His answer both comforts and shocks me.

"Always. I love you."

It's the first time he has ever said that, and it send shivers down my spine. He says it like it's the simplest thing on earth, and maybe I would say it back, but I am too far gone.

When I awaken, Peeta is laid by my side, his arms around my waist, a protective barrier. I untangle myself carefully from his grasp so as not to wake him, since I am the one who caused his lack of sleep last night. I run my hand through his unruly blond curls, and he smiles in his sleep, wiggling slightly, relishing the touch. I pull on an old t-shirt of Peeta's and a comfortable pair of hunting trousers. I don't bother with my braid – where I'm going, they don't care, as long as I show up. I peck Peeta on the cheek and leave him a note telling him where I am going. I grab my bag and walk out of my house. **_Our _**house. I volunteer at the local hospital in the kid's cancer ward every Tuesday, singing to them, and have done ever since Prim died. It was my way of giving back, which is what Prim would have done after they named the ward after her. On a completely selfish side, the kids there love me, and it helps me forget a little bit about the ache of Prim by spending time with them.

As I walk into the ward, I'm greeted by Rue. She volunteers here too, reading and manning the colouring table, because she lost her little sister to cancer, and this is her way to give back. She's a lot younger than me, thirteen to my twenty, but time and tragedy have aged her too fast and she is a more sombre young woman then most people my age. We get along well and she has become my best friend. She runs towards me, full tilt and I brace myself for impact. Sure enough she jumps, but my smile quickly fades when I realise she's upset. "Who did we lose?" I whisper

"Cato," she whimpers. "He told me to tell you that he'll meet you at the tree."

Her dignified weeping gives way to full bodied sobbing, shoulders shaking, tears streaming down her face, nose running. I am too shocked to cry, to do anything other than just rock her in my arms. Cato had been one of the children who loved to join in as I sung, and while the six year old that was battling lung cancer had never been able to carry a tune, the way his eyes brightened and his smile split his face in half when he sang along was inspiring. His favourite song had always been 'The Hanging Tree', a trait he shared with me. It makes every part of me ache to know that he said that, and a tear slowly makes is way down my cheek. I don't understand. He had been nearly in remission only last week. "An infection," Rue begins to explain, as if she read my mind. "His fever went so high he was hallucinating, and they diagnosed meningitis. His body needed to throw a Hail Mary." She bursts into tears again and I just stand there stunned. Only a few kids come to my session today, but at the end I sing 'The Hanging Tree' and I don't even get halfway through before I start to sob. Something unexpected happens though. Clove, little Clove, only four and battling eye cancer, starts to sing the song, and her voice soars over each of us. At the end I lead the kid's in a prayer for Cato. I may not believe in God, but these children, some of whom may die before I next see them, need something to cling to, and God is just that.

When I arrive home, Peeta is in the kitchen, and I can smell chocolate cake, my favourite, baking. "Smells good in here!" I shout, in lieu of greeting.

"Are you saying it doesn't always smell good in here?" He teases, feigning a hurt expression.

"What, with a stinky boy in my house?" I shoot back.

He turns to me and I can see the manic glint in his eye. Before I can run though, he has his strong arms around me. He swings me over his shoulder and carries me, shrieking, into the backyard. Laid on a blanket is a picnic, complete with a beautifully iced chocolate cake. The detail in the mockingjay that has been iced on top of the cake can be the work of only Peeta's steady, gentle hand. He puts me down and holds both my shoulders, his eyes locking on mine. "Rue called before you got here. She told me what happened and said that you might be a bit upset," he explains. "So I did this."

Not for the first time, I wonder how I ended up with two people in my life that love me enough to do something like this. I start to cry, properly cry for the first time since I heard the news. Peeta's arms are twining around me, pieces of velvet ribbon that hold me together during the hardest times. I shake as I cry, and Peeta pulls us down onto the blanket, sitting with me in his lap. After what could be hours, or minutes, I'm not sure, I take my puffy swollen face out of his chest, and he tries to coax me into eating something. After a sliver of cake and a slice of bread have been consumed, his shirt is so soaked that he just takes it off. His bare chest reflects the moonlight, looking handsome, until he slaps it, hard. "Ugh! Mosquitoes!" He groans "Come on. We have to go inside, or else you'll get eaten alive." He tells me.

"Ok," I say, starting to gather the picnic up. "But let me take everything in. You go and put a shirt on."

He walks inside, but with his back to me, I notice something. A trail of bruises down his spine, blue and black and purple, all in different shapes, yet one catches my eye. A greenish one, what would be a very pretty colour if it wasn't causing me so much worry, in the shape of a four leafed clover. "Peeta!" I call. "Have you seen your back recently?"

"I don't tend to check out my back. Why?" He asks

"Well," I hesitate. "You have a trail of bruises down it."

"That's weird. They don't hurt. I'll go take a look. You just pack up everything for once." He pokes his tongue out at me, and I resist the urge to throw the blanket at him.

As I walk upstairs, I can't help but let my mind wander. I've volunteered enough in a cancer ward to know that one of the first signs of leukaemia is easy bruising. I push the thought away, and I clamber into pyjamas. I'm startled when Peeta comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my head. I cover his arms with mine, and look at our reflection in the mirror. Our bodies silhouetting each other, our expressions panicked but covered with a mask of placidness that we can see through after knowing each other for so long. "Do you think…"

"No!" I cut him off. "It's not that. I won't let it be."

"I don't think it quite works like that Katniss." He says sadly.

I break us apart and turn him around.

"You see this?" I say, pointing at the bruise that caught my attention earlier. "It's a four leaf clover. That means it's lucky." He sighs and I know he's about to argue, so I do the only thing I can think of. I mould my mouth to his, kissing him, feeling that hunger for more deep in the pit of my stomach, and judging by the sounds Peeta's making, he feels the same. I jump up, and he catches me easily, our tongues dancing in each other's mouths, our sighs and moans creating a melody of their own. We collapse on the bed and he looks at me, his face radiant. But I can see past the euphoria, the dark bags under his eyes, the way he is so exhausted, so I pull the covers over him and tell him to sleep, that in the morning we will go to the doctors. He holds me in his arms, and we both fake sleep for the others benefit, even though they can see right through the charade.

The hospital is a scary place. Unlike the children's ward where I volunteer, the oncology ward in the adult's part of the hospital is bright white, spotless, and filled with the sound of mourning. People wailing, people weeping, people screaming at doctors that they didn't do enough. Peeta and I sit on the same chair, me in his lap, both of us frozen with fear. When the doctor at the local clinic referred us here, there was only one response I could muster. "Oncology. But that's cancer."

I remember his sympathetic stare as he told me that it was just in case. I remember Peeta comforting me, which is absurd because he was the one being told he may have cancer. I remember the feeling of guilt. I sit here in Peeta's lap as he fiddles with my braid and I recall the events of the past couple of hours. The silent car ride, the blood test which nearly caused Peeta to have a panic attack, me singing to him to calm us both down. "Peeta Mellark!" A sharp voice calls, snapping me out of it. I stand, and help Peeta up, both of us leaning on each other for support. We are handling this the way we handle nightmares, both of us using each other, wrapped in each other's arms for comfort. As I stand in the doorway, I freeze. Peeta pushes me gently from behind and I propel myself forward and into a chair. A doctor comes in and introduces himself as Cinna. Not Doctor, not Mr, just Cinna. But I don't pay attention to this, because I can see in his eyes, rimmed in gold eyeliner, that he is going to tell us the news, and we are not going to like it. Sure enough, I am right. I don't hear him say the words, I only hear him tell us he is sorry, then feel Peeta pull me towards him. In the next hour, we learn about the type of cancer he has, a type of leukaemia which I don't remember the name of, discuss treatment options, decide on chemo, schedule it and then we are finished. At home, we don't talk as we ready ourselves for bed. We clamber in and curl up, my back to his chest. I feel him shaking and roll over and there, finally, Peeta is crying. He had kept it in all day, to try and be support for me, but now the floodgates are open and we are both living our worst nightmares, a living one in which we could lose each other.

Reversing the roles from two nights ago, when it was my nightmare that kept us awake, I take him in my arms, I tell him everything's ok, that nothing bad will happen, that I will support him and follow him to the end of the Earth, that he will recover. I tell him everything he needs to hear, but holding him in my arms, I know the only thing that will calm him down. Unlike me, who needs to know that Peeta is there when I awaken from my nightmares, when he has nightmares, he needs facts that he can hold onto. He needs support in knowing who he is. So I tell him, the way I always do when he wakes up, paralysed with fear next to me, the way I know I will for many nights until he comes out of this, because he will come out of this, he will and I refuse to let myself think any differently. I tell him in calm, soothing tones.

"You're a baker. You're a painter. You like to sleep with the windows open, you never take sugar in your tea and you always double knot your shoelaces."

"You forgot the most important one." He breathes out. A smile plays at my lips as his cheeky charisma starts to return.

"And what would that be?" I question, pretending I don't know.

"Your favourite colour is green…" He starts.

"And your favourite colour is sunset orange." I finish.

End of Part I


	2. Watercolours and Sketchbooks

**Part II**

You're a painter

I hold the poor boys shoulders as he lurches again, rubbing my smooth hands in comforting circles on his back. He breathes in, but his exhales are a series of dry heaves, one after the other. I wipe his sweaty forehead with a cloth and pass the pink emesis basin to a passing nurse. Our sleepless night after his diagnoses wasn't our first and it won't be our last. In the morning we laid in bed and made a plan of action. His first chemo session was in two days and we knew we had people to tell. Correction. We had **a **person to tell. Haymitch. His surly, uncommunicative, alcoholic uncle, who was so different from his cheery, good natured brother it was laughable. When we told him he threw a bottle at the wall, told Peeta he'd sober up for good, then told us to go home and rest. A day later, as I walked into the village to buy Peeta a good meal before his first chemo session, I saw him drinking heavily from a flask and looking about as sober as a normal man on New Year's Eve. Well, that was an improvement.

I'm jerked unpleasantly back to the present as his body juts under mine. I'm situated on my knees, behind him, which we have found after three days of chemo is the best position for me to be in to offer him support. His sinewy shoulders tense as he coughs and I whisper soothing words in his ears. He sighs and leans back, finished for a few minutes.

"I swear, I never will be able to look at food ever again." He huffs.

A laugh bubbles up and escapes my lips. "I'm sure that's not true. Who will make me cake if you can't look at food?" I pout

He laughs slightly. "Only you would joke about cake when I am possibly on my death bed."

The mood in the room instantly shifts, so obviously even drunk Haymitch would be able to see it. "You're not going to die. I won't let you." I tell him stubbornly.

"That's right Katniss," he says. "Forbid me to die."

I'm at a loss for words, so I sit there, mute and unhelpful. I'm about to say something when he starts to sing, catching me off guard.

_"In the arms of the angel,_

_Fly away from here,_

_From this dark cold hotel room,_

_And the endlessness that you fear,_

_You are pulled from the wreckage,_

_Of your silent reverie,_

_You're in the arms of the angel,_

_May you find some comfort here"_

"Peeta…" I sigh through the tears that are marking their descent down my face. "You are not going to die."

"I know," he says simply. "But you're holding me right now, which means I'm in the arms of an angel."

Yet again, he has rendered me speechless. I hold him tighter, and I notice he clenches his jaw, meaning another wave of nausea has swept over him. I hold him tightly and drabble on about nonsense as he tries to fight it off, but it is too strong and he succumbs to it. I hold him tightly, as he is so weak I have a feeling that he will keel over into the basin if I let go. In three days this toxic chemical that is supposed to help him has taken my strapping, bright eyed life partner and turned him into a physical mess. This man who wouldn't even let me help wash the dishes now willingly lets me tie his laces, wipe his face, and his eyes have dulled into a cloudy blue, the whites going a scary yellowish colour. As he leans back into me, I run my hand through his hair, to soothe me as much as him. However, this has mixed reactions. While it helps him, as he relishes the contact, when I take my hand away a clump of his crazy curls comes away with it and I feel my throat close. I blink fast, letting only one tear fall down my cheek. In my selfishness of hoping he wouldn't die at any point because I couldn't live without him, I didn't think about any of the consequences. The way that the treatment would make him more obviously sick then he was before, that it would take his hair away, leaving me unable to run my hand through it, a gesture both of us love. A knock on the door alerts me again to the real world. I look at Peeta for permission and he just nods. "Come in!" I call. The door opens and standing in the frame, arms slightly extended, leaning forward on her toes, looking like a bird about to take flight, is Rue. As soon as she sees Peeta, she rushes forward and hugs him. Despite only meeting each other once, they instantly recognise each other. Peeta manages to say "hi Rue" before firmly closing his mouth, leaving me to do the talking. Something Rue knows from experience I am not good at. As Rue turns to me Peeta, ever the gentlemen says "You can go outside. I don't need you in here if you want to talk."

"Are you crazy?" Rue questions. "There's no way I am letting her leave this room because of me. I came here to ask Katniss if she wants anything to eat and to tell you that Haymitch has gone to yell at some doctors for not giving you any anti-nausea medicine."

"I'm fine Rue," I interject. "I don't need anything to eat."

I'm not planning on having food in here, it'll make Peeta nauseous.

"I came here to ask Katniss if there's anything she wants." Rue stubbornly repeats.

"You need to eat Kat," Peeta adds. "I'll just sleep, that way you don't have to leave and I won't get sick."

God, he knows me so well.

"I'll have some fries then." I say. I'm about as hungry as Peeta is, but him and Rue won't take no for an answer. As Rue runs out the door, we hear a brief snippet of Haymitch yelling at Cinna. We both burst out laughing before the door is closed again. I look around, at each of the bags of exotically named chemicals being pumped into him, at the small roll out bed meant for me in the corner that I haven't slept on in the four days we've been here, at the chair usually occupied by Haymitch or Cinna.

As Rue runs back in, I notice she is carrying a wicker basket and grinning knowingly at Peeta. I figure he has something to do with my dinner, which is so obviously not fries.

"Have fun!" She winks at Peeta, hugs me, and skips out, looking more like a thirteen year old girl then I've ever seen her. I lean over and haul the basket onto the bed, starting to unpack it. In there is everything we need for a feast. Lamb stew, rice, oysters, scallops, bread rolls, cheese buns and lastly in a packet on top, fries. I start to pile a small amount of food onto a plate of Peeta and heap my dish. I haven't realised how hungry I was until I smelt the aroma from this. I watch Peeta dutifully, making sure he eats. He cracks open an oyster and in there is a perfect pearl. "For you." He states, holding out his hand with it in. I can tell this is a turning point. From here he is either going to get better or worse, and I'm determined it's going to be better. I take it and thank him with a kiss. He tastes like salt and sweat and something vaguely familiar that may be morphling for his pain, but I am not sure.

"Peeta," his name escapes my lips before I know what I'm saying. "I got you something."

"Katniss you didn't have…" he starts.

I cut him off swiftly. "Yes I did." I reach down the side of the bed, clasping the gift in my sweaty hands. Despite being together since we're were sixteen, his gifts to me had always been something he baked, and my gifts to him were always something made with an animal pelt that I caught. Never had we actually spent money on gifts for each other. I hold it out hesitantly to him. He takes it, and unwraps it. Where I would rip the paper and cast the ribbon aside, he gently unties the velvet strip and knots it neatly on my messy braid, then edges his now swollen but still careful fingers under the paper. When I think I can no longer take the suspense he holds it in his hands. "Oh Katniss…" he breathes. Hurriedly I start to explain. "You were always so happy when you were decorating cakes and now you can't do that when it's the thing you need most so I figured this was the closest thing to it." I gasp it all in one breathe before he can say anything. "I love it. And I love you." He smiles.

"I love you too." I say, my voice breaking on the end. "I love you too!" I repeat, more confidently.

"Let's try it," he says. "Pose for me. In the chair, sit and read."

So I do, and while I am, he becomes more and more happy, carefully using the expensive set of watercolours I got him to draw me in detail in the beautiful sketchbook I placed with the pencils. I saw it in the gift shop window and couldn't resist. The front cover was marbled with gold's and reds and most importantly, sunset oranges. He looks like a semblance of his old self as he sketches me sat in my chair reading a book that sat, forgotten for most of this week. He talks to me as he draws, stopping only once to dry heave, and we become more like our old selves, less like the two people trying desperately, and failing to hold each other together. When he's done I walk over to his bed and look at the picture. He has captured me in a way that I'll never look in real life. I glow, looking as if someone has painted me with shimmer dust. My braid is messy but beautiful, glossy. My eyes sparkle, looking like two stars in my face. The forest he has surrounded me with, so different in contrast to how I thought he was drawing me in a chair reading, looks so lifelike I can almost smell the scent of trees and wildlife and hear the birds. This girl may look like me, but I can't recognise myself in this picture. I am nothing like the stunning young maiden in his sketch. Right now, my hair is in a messy braid, matted and clumped from not brushing it. My eyes are probably as dull as Peeta's from lack of sleep, and even on a good day are dull and grey, nothing like his azure pools that captivate me. "Peeta," I say. "That's…"

"Stunning." He states.

"Not me." I finish.

"But it is. This is how I see you Katniss, and I only wish you could see yourself the same way. This is the closest you'll ever get to it. For that reason, this is the best gift you could ever get me. I just had no idea I could sketch like this. I thought I needed paint to make the drawing come to life."

"Oh Peeta," I say, as the tears pour down my face. "Of course you can draw. You're a painter."

End of Part II


	3. Cheese Buns

**Part III**

You're a baker

That night, for the first time since we came to the hospital, I sleep. Not on the small roll out bed but on Peeta's chest, his arms wrapped around me, the pearl grasped in my hand, the remains of the picnic scattered around us. I wake up to the sigh of Sae, his nurse, as she walks in to the mess. I spring up and offer to help but she tells me that Peeta needs me more than her. I turn around and see how true this is. His body is shaking, his hands clenching and unclenching. Beads of perspiration are making their way down his forehead and before I get to him he starts to scream. "Help! Don't take her! Mutt! You're a stinking mutt!"

It's a familiar nightmare of his, one where I feature as a mutation trying to kill his family. It hurt me the first time I found out, but I know how to help him now. I grab both his hands and clench them to the point of pain. I shake him, trying to awaken him from this horrible world created by his inner demons. He jolts upwards, his blue eyes clouded and wild. He starts to retch as soon as he wakes up and I hold the basin out for him. When he's done, he pulls me close, burying his face in my matted, knotty hair. He's still shaking, and he's trying to breathe slowly but I notice another thing. His forehead is burning with fever. I slowly move my hand out of his grasp and place it on the back of his cheek. Dry, and as hot as the sidewalk on a summers day. "You're hot." I tell him lamely.

He strikes a pose and replies. "I know, that's why you fell in love with me." His cheeky grin returns and I know he's recovered from the nightmare, but that doesn't stop me from worrying. "No, seriously Peeta, you have a fever."

"I feel cold," he says, shivering. "I think I might have to get a nurse."

"Ok hun."

As he calls the nurse, I allow myself to worry. I know enough about cancer to know that this is a good and bad thing. An infection means the chemotherapy is doing its job and killing the cancer cells, but while it's at it it's killing his immune system. An infection is almost a certain thing, but that doesn't mean it's good. He'll have to have a large dose of antibiotics and then go into isolation. In isolation I'll only be able to see him through a window and he won't be allowed anything in there with him, including our wedding band, the thing that keeps us connected. I'm snapped out of my panic induced haze just as a nurse is telling him he's in the early stages of an infection and that he'll have to go into isolation. I start to cry and try to do it silently so I don't worry Peeta, but he's so in tune with me he notices immediately. He doesn't say anything, just pulls me close until the nurse tells us that is not allowed because I shouldn't even be in the room. I decide I don't like this nurse. I give myself a pep talk. He'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine. He's in the best care it's possible to be. I don't realise I'm talking out loud until Peeta says "Are you trying to reassure you or me?"

"Both," I take a deep breath in. "of us."

"I don't need convincing. I'll be fine." This would be convincing if I didn't know what these fever did to people. He hasn't started to hallucinate yet, but I'm hoping the antibiotics will help that.

As they start to prep him for isolation, pumping the antibiotics into him, I spend more and more time sat on his lap, trying to help both of us through this. He is a lot less in control of his body after the intense chemotherapy but in this moment still more calm then me. Well he is until his body jerks suddenly under mine. A nurse grabs me, pulls me off his lap and I see his face. Pale white, looking as delicate as a snowflake, his eyes rolled back into his head, showing what used to be whites, now yellowish with blood red streaks running through them. He starts to shudder, jerking, his movements out of control. I'm screaming, someone is pushing me through the door. A doctor grabs me, steers me towards a chair and tells me to wait, and that as soon as he has information he will tell me.

I'm not crying and I feel completely numb, but I know I'm anxious because I'm shaking. A passing nurse forces a cup of coffee into my hands and I sip it. Before I know it I'm running to the bathroom. I kneel in front of the toilet and retch. All of last night's dinner finds a new home and I'm dry heaving and I just can't stop. Shock. It does crazy things to a person's body. For the past hour I've had my mind on a leash, telling it that it's not allowed to think of Peeta. But now it wanders. It starts by reassuring me with facts before slowly killing me from inside. My name is Katniss Mellark. I am twenty years old. I was in Peeta's hospital room. I escaped. Peeta has been taken by the doctors. I presume him to be dead. It's probably best if he's dead. I don't want him to hurt him anymore. And then, kneeling in front of the toilet, for the first time since he had his… attack I'm going to call it, I break down. Shaking, my body hot, my head pounding, I lose the little control I had over my body. I hear someone come in but I am too tired, too weak from holding two bodies up instead that I don't even try to stop crying. Then I feel ashamed, because Peeta hasn't cried yet. I may have been doing the physical work of holding two people up, but he's been doing the emotional stuff, and that's a lot more taxing. I hear my door slam open and I just stay there. I mustn't have locked it when I ran in here to throw up. The voice behind me talks, startling me. "Hey, what's up? Tough day?"

"Yeah, you could say that." I laugh. And then I'm laughing like a maniac, unable to control myself. It soon turns to crying and then the person is kneeling next to me, blond curls bouncing on her back.

"It's ok," she soothes. "Everyone has a bad day sometimes. It's hard holding up two bodies. People underestimate the stress on the family of the victim."

"Who are you and why are you helping me?" It comes out more pathetically, and a little more sharply than I intended.

"My name's Madge. My little one, Clove, is in here. She has brain cancer. Her dad left us a while ago. He was from District 1 so I don't know what I expected. And I'm helping you because you're sat in front of a toilet that you've just, don't deny it, thrown up in, crying. I get it. It's hard. And it sucks. And you cry, then you feel bad because you are meant to be strong. So then you cry more. A little kindness goes a long way."

"Oh," I say limply. "My name's Katniss. My husband Peeta is in here. Something just happened, I don't know what. He had an infection and they were getting him ready for isolation, giving him antibiotics and stuff when he started to jerk about on the bed. They kicked me out and I don't know what's happened!" I started out calmly, but by the end I'm wailing.

"Peeta… Mellark?"

"Yes," I say, alert. "Why?"

"They just called his name." The pity in her eyes scares me. I start to shake again, violently.

"Here," she say hurriedly. "Before you go, take this." She starts to unpin a gold pin from her pristine white dress. I can't quite make out what is on it. "It's a mockingjay," she explains. "My husband gave it to me when we were expecting Clove. He said that as long as I had it, nothing bad would happen to me. Have it. When your husband gets out of isolation he can have it."

"I really can't…" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Yes you can. And also," she hands me a card. "here's my card. Phone me if you need help ok?"

It takes all my strength not to cry. "Ok," is all I can muster. She offers me another kind smile before she gets up and leaves.

A doctor is waiting for me outside and I brace myself for the worst. He kindly and silently leads me down a hallway until we arrive at his office. In his office I stare blankly at the wall. On there are a number of drawings from little kids but one of them catches my eye in particular. A drawing of the gold mockingjay pin that Madge just gave me. "Is that from Clove?" I question him.

"Yeah," he smiles. "Lovely girl. I'm taking it her mother just helped you out in there?"

I nod.

"People who are the families of victims become quite tight knit communities in here. You'll find that you and Peeta make lots of new friends."

I detest the way he's talking to me, as if I haven't just witnessed the most horrific thing in my life, as if Peeta and I are little school children who need reassuring that they'll be ok at school, that they'll make lots of new friends. I sit there mutely.

"Well let me explain…"

There's an awful lot of explaining and I don't understand much of it. His body rejected the antibiotics. He had a seizure. His heart stopped. It's ok, it's working now. He's not yet in remission as we hoped. He had to go into isolation to prevent him from getting any further infections. I can't go in there, but I can talk to him with a whiteboard and marker through the window. He should be fine. We just can't be sure. I can go see him now if I want. But I'm too scared, I'm a coward, so I don't. Instead I ask for Clove's room number. 2148.

As I walk there I think hard. Even though I volunteer in the kids oncology ward, I make an effort not to even remember any names, or to get too attached. After the first few and Cato, it hurts too much when they die. I think hard as to whether I know a Clove, and before I know it I'm outside the door. Something shocks me, makes me stop in my tracks. Outside the room is Madge, nibbling on the edge of a polystyrene cup wearing a look I know only too well. It's a look of hope.

"What's happening in there?" It's a pathetic sentence but it's all I can think of.

"She has therapy. The cancer makes her forget. She remembers very few people, and when she does remember someone it's the most random person that she may have only met once or twice. I just hope… I hope she remembers me this time. I have to hope because it's the only thing stronger then fear. And fear doesn't get us anywhere."

Suddenly I feel awful. Not half an hour ago she was picking up my broken pieces when her daughter doesn't even remember her.

"Did she ever go to the kid's room?"

"Yeah, once or twice before it got bad."

"I have an idea. Gimme a sec."

I tear down the hallway, into the kid's room, grab my guitar and run back to Clove's room, navigating the hallways in record time. I push open the door despite Madge's protests and explain what I'm doing to the therapist. She doesn't look happy about it, but she understands and lets me take over. I notice curiosity got the better of Madge as she creeps into the room. I sit on the edge of the bed and take my first look at Clove. She's gaunt, pale, looking more ghost then girl. I don't bother with introductions. They won't help. Instead I launch into song.

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where they hung up a man, they say he murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where I told you to run so we'd both be free._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me._

_Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem._

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

"Katniss!" she yelps joyfully. Madge has tears streaming down her face and the therapist has a look of bewilderment on her face.

"Yes Clove, it's me. I'll come back and sing some more for you ok, but first I have to go see someone."

Which I do, because with this small victory on my back, I feel an illusion of strength, and that's just what I need to go see Peeta.

His room is small, kind of cramped, starch white with absolutely no decoration and it looks like something from an alien space ship. He is asleep, so without him seeing me I make a gesture. I lift the three middle fingers from my left hand to my lips and then into the air. It's a gesture not used often here now, but it means admiration, it means respect. It means goodbye to someone you love. Because sat here, on the bed, this withered shell of a man I am sure, is not going to make it. But for now Peeta is still here, his emotions, his unconditional love for me, his immediate and compulsive need to comfort and protect me. So when he wakes up to me doing that gesture, his first reaction is to grab his whiteboard and scrawl on it _I'm not going to die._

I reply, ignoring his comment, and tell him all about Clove, and Madge, and how we are going to be fine, and how someday he'll have to meet them. I keep the spirit of the conversation high. After a while he begins to get tired so I tell him I'll leave. _Ok _he says.

_I'm expecting a batch of cheese buns when you get out of there._

_And what makes you think I'll make you those?_

_You're a baker._


	4. Masked Kisses

You like to sleep with the windows open

**PART 4**

With Peeta in isolation there's not much I can do. I still go to see him every day, but rather then sit on his lap I say hi, have a small conversation with him and then head to Clove's room. Madge still can't believe what I've been able to do and has convinced me to come and sing to her at least once a day. I enjoy Clove's company, but I worry that I'll get too attached. Getting attached only gets you hurt, and that is a lesson I've learnt enough times in my short lifespan that I could give a university lecture on it. Today I have a little surprise prepared for Clove and Madge. Instead of singing 'The Hanging Tree' like I have every other day, I've written my own song, filled to the brim with memories. I want to see if I can spark some more recognition in Clove's face. The lyrics are sad, but happy at the same time and mainly revolve around Madge. There's nothing quite as heartbreaking as seeing Clove not know who her mother is.

_You'll remember, you'll remember_

_She loves you more than anything_

_And you'll remember_

I breathe through the tears that are silently dancing down my face. About halfway through the song Clove had a slight look of recognition on her face so I stopped singing. But instead of hugging Madge and calling her mummy like she was meant to, she hugged me. Listening to her lisping mummy and telling me she remembers, Madge had to leave the room. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, to explain to this tiny girl that I wasn't her mummy. She was so confused, so I finished the song and she look more perplexed than ever. I kiss her head and tell her I'll see her tomorrow. When I get outside I see Madge. She's curled up in a tiny ball against the wall and she's talking to herself.

"I can stop seeing her if you want." I say by way of greeting.

"No. You're so good with her. And she's getting better. It's… She's… God it hurts!" The tears are pouring down her face and she's punching the wall. She's in the crossover between being angry and being upset and soon the adrenaline rush will be over and she'll just sob. If she's like me, for hours.

"There's no point in being angry," I tell her. "Go in there and try talking to her. She'll still answer. Tell her a story that's in my song. Someday she'll remember. Promise."

I can't keep a promise like that but it's what she needs to keep going. I'm still teetering on borderline breakdown after that so I decide to go see Peeta. I pick up the whiteboard and knock on the window. He turns around and instantly, just by looking at him, I start to creep over borderline. His face is tense, pale white, and he has dark bags under his eyes. He grabs his pen and scribbles on the whiteboard;

_You're here. Real or not real?_

_Real. _I write back. I start to shake.

_You were taken by mutts. Real or not real._

_NOT real! _What's making him think this?! My heart rate jumps up.

_You love me. Real or not real._

_Real. I love you. I miss you. I need you. _My hands are still shaking, a sure fire sign I'm about to start crying again, so I take a deep breathe. I try to smile, but the smile turns to a grimace and the grimace turns to tears and the tears turn to full on sobbing. I clutch my chest, try to breath. Peeta scribbles franticly.

_What's up?_

That one question, those two words are unanswerable. I crack. I let loose. Every single emotion, every worry, I pour out. Peeta might die. Clove thinks I'm her mother. I miss _my _mother. I miss my father. I miss Prim. Prim. Prim. Prim! She's dead and it's all my fault. Now I'm being unreasonable. Peeta needs me and I'm being so selfish, so completely wrapped up in my own problems I can't help him. HE HAD TO ASK WHETHER OR NOT I LOVED HIM! I'm on the floor now, and I can hear Peeta's machines beeping. I try to pull it together for him, and I start to grab a tiny hold of myself, so I stand up, only to see Peeta shaking in his bed, screaming and the only comprehendible thought I can gather is that I've done this to him. I stand and I run. Heart pounding, hair flying, I can hear a scream, a single unbroken note and it takes me a while to realise the sound is coming from me. I crash to the floor only to feel arms around me, hauling me up. I'm puzzled, because they seem vaguely familiar. I look up, expecting Haymitch or maybe Madge but am met with steely grey eyes not unsimilar to mine, and a thin, tight line of lips. There is only one person this could be.

"What's up Catnip?"

I'm still reeling with shock at finding my childhood best friend in the hospital where my husband is currently being treating for cancer in the middle of having a breakdown. I run through about 100 emotions in my head, but end up doing the worst thing possible. I laugh. And not just a chuckle either, a full, healthy laugh, belting it out, losing all my sanity at the craziness of the situation. He looks at me as if I'm crazy, and hey! Maybe I am? I don't know, and in all honesty, I don't care, because right now, in the middle of this living nightmare, I was praying for something so unbelievable to happen that maybe I could convince myself I was dreaming, and that's exactly what I've received. In the shape and form of Gale Hawthorne.

"The sky," I reply sarcastically.

"Ah. Still not impressed with me I see."

"NO! You left me when I needed you most!"

And that much is true. All the venom of the last few years, after he ran off with his family to live in the woods because "you will always pick Peeta and that hurts too much" finally finds a release. Yeah, because you're best friend up and leaving because he can't get over his school-boy jealousy doesn't hurt. Not to mention that Hazel is pretty much the closest thing I've ever had to a mother.

"What are you even here for Gale?"

"I'm picking up Rory."

His eyes trail to the floor at that, and I can already tell that whatever Rory's in here for, it's his fault.

Instead of asking him what happened (I know better than anyone that explaining to people hurts too much) I ask him why he's taking him out. "Is he better?"

"No. I have to take him to a court case. He's a witness."

"What for?"

"Arson."

"Arson?" I question. Arson of what?  
"Yeah. They worked out that the fire that destroyed the Seam," I suck in my breath. The fire that destroyed my sister. "was arson. Rory was there."  
I should know when to stop, to stop pressing because I can tell by his tense jawline and shoulders Gale is about to explode, but I press on. "Why was Rory there?"

"I did it! I've been convicted of arson! It was me that lit the fire!"

And with that he's off, running away, leaving me just as stunned as last time, leaving me to try and fathom my thoughts. I comb through them and can find one thing to clasp to and let that thought overtake me, infect me. I plant that tiny seed in my head and it expands, filling every empty space of me with grief. My best friend killed my sister.

That night my nightmares prominently feature Gale, Prim and Peeta. Gale is holding Prim on a bed, forcing her to watch Peeta holding a knife tauntingly over her head, only he's being controlled by Gale, I can tell. Then the scene shifts and I'm watching Prim bleed to death. Then Peeta in a hospital bed, all long and wiry, a ghost of his former self, vomiting from the chemo, but then there's blood, so much blood. The last nightmare intrigues me though. I'm in a bed, a sheen of sweat on my forehead, a baby in my arms. Peeta is crying and beaming at the same time. A nurse who resembles Madge says "Do you want to see her?" and laughs when Peeta and I nod so much we resemble bobble heads. But when she lifts the sheet off my daughters face, there is a perfect replica of Prim, and then a shadow over us who lifts a knife, stabs my baby and says to me "Catnip, she was beautiful."

Shaking and crying, I come to, twisted in the blanket someone spread over me when I fell asleep in the hard hospital chair, clawing at my hair and face. It felt like losing her again. I'm so shaken with this set of nightmares that I can see Peeta in his room, leaning nearly out of his bed and trying to get to me. I shake my head and blow a kiss to him. He's fading, but slowly. I can tell though, he is going to run somewhere I'm not allowed to go, and leave me alone here. The doctors are trying to help, but their plan to "harm him gently" isn't working. I know that for the cancer to die, a part of him has to die too, but that doesn't make it any less heartbreaking. I look over to him again and he's crying. I can't take this anymore.

I throw open the window, and wait impatiently, tapping my foot against the floor as the doctor wheels the bed over. He's asleep but the movement awakens him. "Peeta!" I call, muffled through the mask on my face. "Katniss?" It's more of a question but I take it anyway. Leaning down I kiss his mouth, a peck on the lips, barely noticeable through both of our masks.

"How?" Is all he can manage to ask.

I smile, knowing the answer will make him do the same.

"I managed to convince the doctors that you like to sleep with the windows open."


End file.
